


Passionate Acts

by skeletondance



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Age Difference, Closeted Character, Dirty Talk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:57:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletondance/pseuds/skeletondance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Orange and White get pulled over and arrested, Freddy knows someone's screwed up - why else haul in an undercover cop when he's on the job? There's a scheme in the works, cooked up by his superiors. Freddy must gain White's trust by any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (originally archived on LJ, 2007)
> 
> Thanks to gribouille for beta-reading.

Freddy waits until he hears the door click shut before turning, tense and jerky like a dog bristling for a fight.

“What is this?” he says.

Frank Ferchetti, broad-shouldered, big, he's got a bent flat nose. He moves past Freddy without really looking at him and dumps a file down on the table.

“Alright, Newandyke, chill the fuck out,” he says wearily.

“Are you serious with this shit? Where’s Holdaway?”

“Unavailable.” Ferchetti flips open the file and braces his hands on the table, he looks down, turns a page. “He knows we brought you in.”

The room is silent. Freddy’s waiting for more, but Ferchetti’s just reading through the file.

“What are you trying to do?" Freddy keeps his voice level with an effort. "You trying to blow this whole thing? You pick me up when I’m on the fucking job? - when I'm in there with a guy ?”

Ferchetti straightens up. 

“You aren’t here as a cop. You’re here as the piece-of-shit-thief Cabot’s just hired to work on his team.”

“Are you saying this is more of Holdaway’s - whatever it's called -” Freddy searches for the word. “More of that acting bullshit?”

“Little more to it than that,” says Ferchetti.

Another silence. Freddy finds his gaze drawn to the large two-way mirror that dominates one of the walls of the small interview room. He briefly imagines someone’s on the other side, watching him. He’s about to look away when he catches his eye in the mirror and feels a sudden jolt of dislocation. He’s dressed as Mister Orange – jeans, white shirt. Wedding ring. Just half an hour ago he was sitting in a car with Mister White talking about _Miami Vice_.

“What about the other guy?” Freddy says sharply, turning back to Ferchetti.

“Dimick?”

Freddy frowns. “What? I mean the guy – the other guy who was with me.”

“Yeah, we just checked him out – name’s Dimick, Lawrence ‘Larry’ Dimick, A.K.A. Lawrence Jacobs, A.K.A. Alvin Jacobs.”

Freddy takes half a step towards Ferchetti, halts, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m not hearing this. This – this is a fucking mess. Why didn’t anyone tell me you were planning this shit? So what, have you charged him? I mean – do you actually have any idea what kind of damage this is going to do? Once Joe finds out the two of us were picked up, he’ll probably call off the whole job.”

“We haven’t charged Dimick with anything, we haven’t told him anything. He’s got no fucking clue,” Ferchetti says flatly.

“Yeah. Yeah, him and me both.”

Ferchetti nods at the file on the table. “Your cover's back story. There was a robbery. Portland hold-up.”

Freddy says nothing.

“This is the stuff you fed Cabot about the various jobs you done. Supposed to be, you did a job in Portland? And wasn’t there some scumbag backing it all up for you? What’s his name? Mike?”

Freddy smiles a sour little smile, his brows arching. “What, Long Beach Mike?”

“He corroborated your whole story, got you in the door?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“There’s too much doubt. Holdaway thinks you’ll be out on your ass in the next couple days. Cabot’s done this before, dropped guys at the last minute.”

“I checked in with Holdaway _last night_. He never said anything to me about Cabot having doubts. I’ve got these guys, man, I’m in there. Eddie checked me out, I passed. He believes I’m the guy I say I am.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We need this airtight. Here’s how it’s going to happen. We put your buddy behind there.” Ferchetti points at the two-way. “Let him see what’s happening to you in here.” He rests his knuckles on the table, on top of Freddy’s file.

“You want – you want White to see me get leaned on?” Freddy’s face twists with incredulity. “Jesus. Why don’t you just send Cabot a tape, you want to be that fucking obvious about it –”

“Alright, asshole, simmer the fuck down.” Ferchetti straightens and crosses the room to stand in front of the two-way. “Point is this: it can’t look like it has anything to do with Cabot, not on the surface. This is you and Larry Dimick. The situation is as follows: according to your story, you held the shotgun in that Portland job a couple months back. Nothing to do with Dimick, nothing to do with Cabot. This was your little stunt, and you’ve been very pleased with yourself about it. Far as you know, it went off without a hitch. Only thing is, there _was_ a hitch, and now, at this most inconvenient of moments, it’s come back to bite you in the ass. We get a stray tip off Portland’s vice squad, we catch you rolling through town, decide to haul you in. No evidence, but we know your punk ass was in on that job. So, maybe we don’t have anything to pin you, but we figure, hey, this prick’s sailing around? We knock the wind out of him, maybe we get an easy confession.

“Now, it comes to pulling you over, we’re in for a surprise. Who do we find in the car with you but Larry Dimick. Old hand, real pro. So we’re thinking we’re onto a big thing here. Maybe Dimick’s the guy behind the whole Portland job. We throw some questions at him in a room down the hall, but it’s obvious we don’t got shit on him. Meanwhile, next door, we’re coming down _real_ hard on you. We _know_ you were involved. We’re getting nothing out of Dimick. So...we sit him back here. Let him enjoy a little peep show.” Ferchetti gestures to the mirror. “Front row seat to watch his buddy get sweated. Bad for morale, we figure. But of course all Dimick’s going to see is you taking the heat and still keeping it together. A rat you ain't. End of the night, we got to release you. Dimick walks away from the whole thing thinking you’re a real trouper. Undercover cop is the furthest fucking thing from his mind.”

Freddy’s watching Ferchetti narrowly. “And then what? The whole story gets back to Cabot and suddenly I'm his number one guy?”

Ferchetti shrugs.

“No way. I’m sorry. No.” Freddy wheels in a circle, comes to a halt again facing Ferchetti. “It’s already over. It’s out the window. Soon as Cabot hears that we got booked, it won’t be about trust. It’s obvious, he’s dropping both of us from the job. Once he knows you’ve got our names tied to this, he’ll either get some other guys to replace us, or he’ll call off the whole thing. It’s finished.”

“Cabot won’t do the job without Dimick,” Ferchetti says. “Holdaway had a hunch that whoever this Mister White was, he was Cabot’s main man this time around. Think about it. He’s never used Dimick before. He called him in from out of town especially. After this, Cabot decides Dimick’s a risk? Then yeah, he's a smart son of a bitch, he'll call it off. Either way, he's hearing it from Dimick how this went down. Cabot’ll have two choices: one, it’s not worth the risk, time to cancel the job. Two, it is worth it, in which case things proceed as planned. He’ll use Dimick because he’s a top thief, he’ll use you because now, everyone knows, hundred percent, you aren’t going to shake.”

“Do I even get a say in this?” Freddy’s voice is quiet, his words clipped. “I’m the guy who’s out there, I’m the guy dealing with these people, is my perspective fucking worthless here?” He plants his hands on hips. Ferchetti looks at him indifferently.

“Sure. Mister invincible. You’ve got perspective. Bet you feel untouchable. Lying right to their faces all this time. They’re a bunch of dumb fuckers, that’s what you’re thinking. They’ll believe anything you tell them. You got them round your finger, right?”

Freddy’s lip curls. It’s been months since he’s had to deal with a cop who isn’t Holdaway. He’s not in the right frame of mind. He’s too far into Mister Orange.

Freddy doesn’t think. Just tilts his head and fixes Ferchetti with a look – a lazy, blunt: _Fuck. You._

Ferchetti snorts softly. Crosses the room in a couple unhurried strides. Freddy’s squaring up long before he gets near him.

Ferchetti assesses him up and down.

“Undercovers. All alike.”

A weird feeling creeps over Freddy’s as he looks at the guy. Ferchetti? What was Ferchetti? Another fucking cop. And Freddy? What was he? Some messed up fucking thing. Freddy blinks a slow blink. He feels detached, giddy, like the back of his head’s falling out.

“So, are we doing this or what?” Ferchetti says.

“You think you’re giving me a choice?" Freddy says tonelessly.

Ferchetti just watches him.

“I’ll do it,” Freddy says, and looks away. “Is it going to be you, or what?”

“It’ll be me." The bite's gone out of Ferchetti's voice. He's all business. "Me and two other guys.”

Freddy’s eyes flicker to the table before he can stop himself. He balks then, shoulders slumping slightly, mouth slackening.

Ferchetti’s face hardens. “I won’t go further than I need to,” he mutters, and turns away.

Freddy’s suspended, unmoving, for just a second. Then he’s forced himself forward, taking wide steps, almost managing a swagger. He reaches the table. Drops down into a chair and hangs his arm comfortably over the back. He doesn’t know if he’s in character or not. His throat is dry, he can hardly swallow. He bites the tip of his tongue and fixes his gaze straight ahead. He won’t look Ferchetti in the eye again.

Ferchetti goes to the door, opens it and sticks his head out. He barks something Freddy doesn’t make out, then comes back in.

“Okay. Let’s get this done.”

“Your guys – they know who I am?” Freddy asks.

“No. That’s how it has to be.”

Freddy wets his lips and smirks. There’s no amusement in it, just an edge of hysteria.

“Jesus Christ.” His leg’s jumping under the table.

“Just remember, Dimick’ll be behind that glass in a second.” Ferchetti puts his hands in his pockets and looks at Freddy like he’s waiting for him to call it off. Freddy swallows, says nothing. He’s looking at Ferchetti’s tie, but he’s not really seeing it.

His last chance passes. Seconds tick by and then the guys come in the room. Like Ferchetti, they’re real big bulls, shirt sleeves rolled up at the elbow revealing heavy forearms. Fucking lumberjacks. Freddy keeps still and silent while the three of them go into a corner and huddle shoulder to shoulder, muttering, coughing. The smell of cigarette smoke, rich and familiar, stings Freddy’s nose. The tension’s worse than Freddy imagined, breathless, compressed. His upper lip tingles with sweat but he doesn’t move to wipe it. He keeps his pose, loose and careless, making a conscious effort to stop twitching his foot.

The cops finally break up and come to the table, one of them walking around behind Freddy.

Freddy trains his gaze on a high corner of the ceiling. From behind, the guy suddenly grabs a hold of his arms and snaps cuffs on him. Freddy tenses up like he’s going to fly out of his chair, but he stays put somehow. The metal bites his wrists.

“This necessary?” Freddy mutters stiffly, like he’s quoting a line from a movie.

No one speaks. The second guy – close-cropped dark hair, blue shirt, .38 plugged in his shoulder holster – takes a seat opposite. He stretches his spine out and scratches his chin, puffs out a stream of smoke.

Freddy senses the guy behind him move off, hover just out of view. He tries not to think about it and makes a show of slouching in his seat, letting his bound wrists hang slack behind his back.

“So, what, this a tough guy we got here?” Blue shirt says. Ferchetti comes right up close and plants both his hands on the table.

“Oh yeah, Steve. Thinks he’s Joe fucking Pesci, this guy.”

Steve draws on his cigarette and looks Freddy over.

“Yeah? You gonna to tell me to go fuck my mother?”

Freddy cocks his head and gives the guy a bored little grin. He guy smiles thinly back at him.

“Alright, let’s go one more time,” Ferchetti says, straightening. “We were talking about Portland. You remember Portland?”

“No.” Freddy’s voice comes out flat and even. “I’ve never been to Portland. Like I said.”

“You never been to Portland,” Ferchetti repeats. He glances at his buddy. Freddy doesn’t know what kind of look passes between them, but he can anticipate what’s coming next.

Ferchetti coils up, swings, smashing a fist across Freddy’s mouth. Freddy’s head snaps back sickeningly, then he’s staring down at the rip in the knee of his jeans and not quite processing what’s just happened. His whole jaw’s burning, an intense hum. His tongue’s all slick. Maybe his cheek tore inside his mouth.

“You sure about that?” Ferchetti says mildly. Freddy gets a funny fluttering feeling rising up in his chest like he’s going to start giggling. He makes a rough little noise and straightens up in his chair. He tosses his head, trying to shake his hair out his eyes.

“You sure you weren’t holding up a poker game? Huh, tough guy?”

“I’ve never…been to Portland,” Freddy says, very slowly.

“He got bodies on him?” Steve asks.

“One. Portland boys found a guy out in the pool with his head shot off,” Ferchetti says. He rubs his knuckles, staring down at Freddy dispassionately. “Was it you that did that?”

Freddy says nothing.

Ferchetti goes for him again, punching his face once, twice, giving him one in the gut. Freddy’s curled over on the armrest, his jaws parted. A thin dribble of blood and spit trails from his lip to the carpet.

“Well?” Ferchetti says, looming over him. Freddy grits his teeth and lifts his chin.

“Huh,” Steve snorts, getting up from his seat. He comes round and leans on the table on Freddy’s other side. They’re crowding him, two big guys. Freddy’s eyes snap from left to right.

“You a tough guy? Tough little fucker?” Steve takes his cigarette from his mouth and holds it in front of him for a long moment. Feels like there’s a nerve caught somewhere that’s got Freddy’s whole body rigid. He can’t take his eyes off the cigarette.

Come on. Ferchetti won’t allow that. Come on. Come on.

Freddy doesn’t move while Steve turns and puts the cigarette down carefully on the lip of the ash tray on the table. He doesn’t move in the seconds before the guy swings at him. It’s agony this time, really - just glancing his nose. The pain of it has him cursing, hunched up in the chair, breath wet, bloody-mouthed.

Ferchetti gets a hold of his chin and forces his head back. Freddy sets his teeth together, panting, blowing out his cheeks.

“Was it Dimick set the job up? Was it him?” Ferchetti shouts. “Tell us, kid!”

“I don’t know –” Freddy inhales roughly. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“Larry Dimick, we got him next door, he’s the guy selling you out.”

“I don’t know who he is!” Freddy thrashes in his chair. Ferchetti’s grip on his chin slips, the blood’s making it hard for him to keep a hold. He grabs Freddy around the back of the head instead.

“Don’t know who Dimick is?” Ferchetti says. “You always drive around with strangers, huh? Maybe you were just there to suck his dick. Huh, pretty boy?”

Steve chuckles appreciatively.

“Here’s what we think happened," Ferchetti says. "Dimick, yourself, and a couple other lowlifes hold up a poker game, shoot some poor fuck, cut and run. You and Dimick are cruising down this way, thinking you’ve got away with it. What you don’t know is we got evidence placing you in Portland the night of the job. We’ve got you. No point protecting him, kid. He’s singing next door, you do know that, don’t you? You think he gives a fuck about your sorry ass? This is Larry Dimick we're talking about. He knows how to look after himself. What're you gonna do, kid? You gonna help yourself? Come on! Dimick ran the whole thing, didn't he?”

Freddy errupts. “He wasn’t fucking involved!”

“Oh?" Ferchetti says, quiet. "Just you then?”

“I wasn’t either. I don’t know shit about it.”

“So who held the place up? Who took that guy’s head off and left him floating in the pool? Fucking Santa Claus?”

“I don’t. Fucking. Know.” Freddy speaks each word clearly, spitting. Ferchetti stares down at him and doesn’t say anything. After a few seconds he lets his head go. Freddy slumps in his chair. Ferchetti paces the room. Steve stays put. He’s got his cigarette back between his lips.

“How’d you meet Dimick?” Ferchetti asks.

“Met him in a bar in town.” Freddy’s mouth feels alien to him. He’s forming his words awkwardly now.

“When?”

“Couple nights ago. I’d never seen him before that.”

“You don’t know who he is?” says Steve.

“He didn’t tell me his name.” Freddy swallows. The blood’s cloying on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth. He feels an almost overwhelming temptation to look straight at the mirror. Larry Dimick – Mister White – is standing on the other side right now, watching. It feels obscene. ‘Peep show’, Ferchetti called it. Freddy wants to see White’s face. He wants to know what seeing this is doing to him. Incoherent scenarios flicker through Freddy’s head like moths knocking against a bulb. He shudders, tries to turn his body away from the mirror. The handcuffs are feeling really fucking uncomfortable now.

“Where were you going today?” Ferchetti barks. Freddy takes a minute to work out what he’s talking about.

“We were going to get –” He swallows thickly. “Going to get some tacos.” His lips stretch into a crazy crocodile grin.

“Yeah? First date?” Ferchetti’s back, standing over him. Freddy rolls his head around to squint up at him.

“You a fucking fag, kid?” Steve says. He stubs out his cigarette.

“Fuck you,” says Freddy.

“I’m going to ask you one last time. What happened in Portland?” Ferchetti’s voice is soft and dangerous. Freddy’s waiting for him to punch him again. He feels like one more will finish him.

“I’ve never been to Portland,” he says.

Ferchetti shakes his head. He’s very still for a few seconds, then with a crack like a gun going off, he backhands Freddy across the face. Freddy hears it more than feels it, and then he’s out.

When he’s next aware of what’s going on, he’s in the back of a car and someone’s slapping his face, not hard, but not gently either.

“You with me, man?” a voice is saying. Freddy looks blearily around. Holdaway is sitting next to him, gripping his shoulder and staring hard into his face. “You need me to throw some fuckin water on you?”

Freddy can’t say anything. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed up with cotton. There’s a low throbbing in his temples. His whole face is burning.

“I know I’m the last son of a bitch you want to see right now,” Holdaway goes on. “We definitely got some shit to sort out. But it’ll have to wait. We’re dropping you at your place. You’re gonna go in, get yourself together. One of Cabot’s guys might be there already, otherwise you should expect a phone call. If you don’t hear anything, then we can assume Cabot’s dropped you, meaning all this was for shit. I don’t want to kick a man when he’s down or nothing, but be prepared.”

Freddy’s barely taking any of it in. His arm’s crooked up against the car door. He cranes his hand around and has a feel of his face. His fingers come away sticky. He examines them blankly by the pulsing streetlights. Holdaway’s still talking, but Freddy can’t make sense of him. The car rounds a bend, slows. Holdaway reaches across Freddy and pushes the door open.

“Hey, man, you did a good job,” he says. Freddy catches that much as he rolls away from him, rolls out of the car and staggers on unsteady feet into the empty street.

The door slams behind him and the car drives off. Freddy looks around for a minute. He holds his stomach, bends slightly at the waist because he’s thinking he might vomit. But nothing happens. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, then makes his way slowly to his apartment.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. White’s there, waiting for him, sitting on the steps just inside. He gets to his feet when he sees Freddy and walks to him, moving slow and cautious like he thinks Freddy might bolt or something.

“Jesus Christ, kid…” he mutters as he comes down off the sidewalk, comes near enough to get a good look at Freddy’s face.

“I’m okay.” Freddy's voice comes out sounding thick like he’s got a head cold.

“Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers. Come here.” White’s got a handkerchief out. “I was starting to think they were gonna keep you in all night.”

Freddy accepts the handkerchief White puts in his hand. He raises it to his mouth and holds it there, but he doesn’t do much more. White’s staring at him.

“It’s fine,” Freddy says.

"Like fuck."

White's quiet for a bit like he's too angry to speak. They stand in the street. Freddy turns over the handkerchief clumsily and wipes his nostrils sticky with blood.

"Your nose broke?" White says.

“I don’t think so.”

“Let me take a look.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Freddy says, but White's already close, raising his hands.

“That hurt?” He’s gentle, pressing with blunt fingers. “Not too bad? Okay, it ain’t broke. You want some ice on it anyway. Where’s your place?”

“It’s only one flight up,” Freddy says. “Listen, you don’t ah you don't have to...”

"What are you saying? Come on." White's ushering Freddy along, walking him forwards to get him out of the street.

“You don’t have to stick around, don't worry about it,” Freddy says.

“Hey. I’m not going anywhere. Come on.” White takes Freddy by the shoulder and points him towards the stairs. His hand slips to Freddy’s lower back and stays there, warm and shepherding, as they start up the steps. Freddy holds onto the rail. The sound of White’s footfalls are quiet and neat beside him. They get to the landing and Freddy reaches into his jeans pocket for his key. He’s trying to keep quiet but his breath’s coming out a little ragged. The muscles in his stomach ache like hell. He gets the door open.

There's striped orange light on the wall and the table and the floor from the streetlight outside. White shuts and locks the door. Freddy snaps on the light. He wants to go lie down on the couch, but he stays where he is.

“You got a cigarette?”

White pulls his pack from his pocket.

Freddy tilts his head close cigarette tip in the flame, they stand still, White holds the lighter for him. Freddy's lungs fill with smoke and it feels like the first real breath he’s taken in hours. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, exhales. He can feel White watching him.

“I look like shit?”

“You just need a little cleaning up,” White says. “Go on, sit down. You got any spirits?”

“In the kitchen. On the counter.” Freddy lowers himself into a chair at the table and pulls on his cigarette some more. White goes out the room, comes back a minute later with a tray of ice he’s dug out the freezer, a bottle of vodka and a dish cloth. He pulls up a chair in front of Freddy and wets the cloth, then reaches out and starts dabbing.

“Jesus Christ!” Freddy jerks violently back.

“Yeah, I know, hurts like a bitch.”

Freddy sits stiffly forward again, hands clasped on his knees. White avoids the split in his lip and starts wiping the blood off his chin, the skin under his nose. He folds the dishcloth over when it gets too stained, goes back to cleaning Freddy’s face with a clean corner of it, doing it careful and unhurried.

He sits back when he’s done, wraps some ice in the dishcloth and hands it to Freddy.

“Get that on your nose, it’ll take the swelling down.”

Freddy does as Whites tells him. The hard ice through the cloth hurts at first against his tender skin, but after a little while he can’t feel anything. He blinks his eyes tiredly and leans forward on his elbows, his head bowed.

White’s screws the top back on the vodka.

“I spoke with Eddie. He knows what happened.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” White licks his lips. “I, ah…saw what they did.”

Freddy raises his head.

“What?”

“They had me watching through the mirror.” White’s mouth is a tense line. He’s rubs his hands restlessly together.

“What the fuck for?” Freddy’s voice is dull. He hopes White puts it down to confusion.

“They expected you to break. Making me watch, they figured I’d start talking too.”

Freddy studies White and takes a long drag of his cigarette. He lets out a stream of smoke, taps ash on a sports magazine that’s lying open on the table, and says, “I fucking shit my pants in there.”

“Hey, you got balls, kid,” White says sharply. “I know plenty of guys would have cracked under that kind of heat.”

“Yeah, well. It’s my own fault.” Freddy shakes his head. “Fucking Portland.”

Right now, he feels so deep in this shit, his mind’s so hazy – he could easily start to think that he really did hold up a poker game with a shotgun in Portland.

“What the fuck happened with that?” White says. “They kept on about it. I didn’t have a fucking clue.”

Freddy considers reeling off the monologue he used on Nice Guy Eddie back before Joe had seriously been considering him for the team. Looking at White, he decides to cut it down. Spinning it any more than he strictly has to with this guy makes him feel like a piece of shit.

“It was a job – just some job I got involved in a couple months back. Guy called Long Beach Mike set the whole thing up. It was us and two other guys. I thought it went off clean. Obviously someone fucked up. Cops said – well, you heard. Fucking body floating in the pool.”

“So you didn’t shoot nobody?”

“No way, that’s what I’m saying. It was clean, far as I know. And if Mike’s fucking me around…no, it has to be one of the other guys.” Freddy sighs. “Listen, I’m sorry you had to get involved in my shit, I really am. Cops only dragged you into it because you were there.”

“Forget it. They’ve never needed an excuse with me,” White murmurs. He shakes his head. “Can’t believe they came down on you like that. They didn’t have shit on you. They were grasping. Bunch of halfwit fucks.”

They’re silent for a beat, then Freddy says, “If Joe…I mean, shit, once he knows…” He rubs his forehead. “He’s going to drop us. I’m sorry, Larry. I’ve fucked this up for both of us.”

White looks at him, startled.

“You calling me Larry now?”

“Huh?” Freddy starts. It was a genuine slip. “Oh. Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Just surprised me.”

“Did they tell you my name?”

“No,” says White.

Freddy lowers the ice pack from his face, puts it on the table.

“Listen…this is bullshit,” he says. “I don’t care if you know my name.” And he doesn’t. Not right now.

White considers him, thinks it over.

“No. Better not to, kid. Joe’s got his reasons.”

“What’s he gonna care? He’s dropping us anyway –”

“He’s not dropping us.”

Freddy stills.

“How do you know that?”

“Like I said, I spoke to Eddie. He spoke to Joe. He’s keeping us on the job, so don’t worry about it,” White says.

Freddy laughs weakly.

“Thank fuck.” He rubs his eyes. He’s actually relieved for a moment before he processes what this means. Then a leaden feeling settles over him and he can’t work out his own reasoning. Wearily, he rakes his hair back from his forehead and absently fingers the cut on his lip.

“You impressed me back there, you know that, kid?” White says.

Freddy makes a dismissive gesture and takes a final pull from his cigarette before stubbing it out.

“No, really. I mean I was…” White laughs dryly. “I was going kind of crazy behind that glass. Watching those sons-a-bitches go at you.”

The words have Freddy tensing up inexplicably. He hunches with his head bent, twisting his fake wedding ring round his finger, trying to think of something to say. He wishes he hadn’t stubbed the cigarette out so quick.

“You handled yourself well.”

“No, man.” Freddy’s cheeks are starting to heat.

“You did.”

“I wish you hadn’t fucking seen all that,” Freddy mutters. He really means it.

“Hey, you haven’t got anything to be ashamed about. You didn’t break, kept your mouth shut. When that Mike guy hears how much heat you took for him…”

Freddy’s shaking his head. “Don’t. Let’s not even talk about it.”

“You can’t take a fucking compliment, kid, that’s your problem,” White says, but there’s obvious fondness behind his words.

Freddy looks at White: his open expression, his strong square jaw and lined brow, the wry little smile creasing the corners of mouth. There’s something about the way White’s looking at him that has Freddy floored.

“Christ, I’m,” Freddy huffs a quiet little laugh. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“You’re exhausted is what you are.”

“Ah, Larry…” Freddy says. The words come out strange and almost slurred. He’s swaying ever so slightly in his chair. “Larry? Mr. White?” Freddy’s watching him, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Yeah, kid,” White murmurs. “You really gotta get some rest. You’ve had a long fucking day.” He reaches out and pats the side of Freddy’s neck with easy affection. His palm’s hot and smooth. A shiver runs right the way down Freddy’s back. White’s hand lingers just a moment too long. Freddy swallows and holds his gaze levelly. And then White’s withdrawing, sitting back in his chair.

“If you want…” Freddy says, his voice low, intimate, foreign to his own ears.

“It’s late,” is all White says.

“Yeah,” Freddy agrees, but the way he says it sounds more like a question. He’s going to leave it at that, but then he finds himself saying: “Come on, I mean…you want something to eat?”

White smiles, charmed, and scratches his eyebrow like he’s considering it.

***

“Nashville Skyline.”

White’s over at the CD player. He turns the CD case over in his hand and studies the back for a minute, then lifts the disc out and puts it into the player. The first rhythmic strums of Girl from the North Country fill the apartment and White shakes his head.

“I haven’t listened to this in years.”

Freddy’s sitting at the table with their plates and empty beer bottles, smoking, watching White move around the room.

“This is a good fucking album, you know,” White mutters.

They sit together filling their air with smoke and White gets to talking about the old days. Lay Lady Lay comes on and White's telling Freddy about jobs he's done. Freddy looks while he listens, he looks at White's hands, his fingers, looks at his mouth while he talks.

Freddy takes a second to realise White's gone quiet while he's been staring.

White smiles, drops the stub of his cigarette down the neck of his empty beer bottle and says,

“What’s on your mind, kid?”

“I was thinking...” Freddy imagines saying what he wants to say, the moment presses on him, he knows he's not going to say it because it's not something he can do. He picks at the label of his beer bottle. He shakes his head.

"What?" says White quietly.

Freddy looks at him and White's gaze seems to capture him, and then he says, “I was thinking about fucking.”

White doesn’t react. Freddy holds his gaze, his heart thumping, arousal curled tight in his belly, his whole body washing cold in shock at his own words. White’s keeping still and quiet and it’s more than a little terrifying. If Freddy’s read this whole thing wrong… There's no way he’s up for another round. If the situation flips, if White wants to kick the shit out of him, there's not a lot he's going to be able to do about it.

Reckless, taking his chances, Freddy shifts, slouching just a little more, his knees falling open just a little wider. Something flickers in White’s calm face, and then suddenly he’s rising out of his chair, coming over, and Freddy doesn’t move, doesn’t dare, but he’s tensing up for a fist, his body tightening with the urge to flinch away.

White bends over him, grips the arms of his chair and leans his face in close to Freddy’s. The gesture’s so relaxed, so easy. A single pluck of Freddy’s mouth, firm and warm, and the bruising skin protests just for a second. He does it again and Freddy angles his head, returns the caress. The third time, Freddy gets his hands fisted in the front of White’s shirt and then the older man’s dragging him to his feet.

They stand pressed together for long moments, struggling almost wrestling slow and clumsy.

"Wasn't gonna fuckin do this-" White says, his hands in Freddy's hair.

Sense-memories of the women Freddy’s been with over the last few years, soft curves, heavy hair – recede into the darkness. He runs his hands over solid, flat planes of muscle, pulls at the fabric of White’s shirt. Freddy’s around men all day, every day, but he keeps himself on a tight leash. Now all at once he’s conscious of everything – White’s smell, thick in his nostrils: sweat, the scent of his skin, cigarettes. The day’s downy beard that’s formed on his cheek rasps viscerally against White’s stubble. Their tongues roll together. Wet, deep strokes. White’s hands press the small of his back, rub him up and down. He knows how to touch. Freddy’s intoxicated.

White pulls back, breathing rough, his eyes dark. Freddy tries to follow his mouth but White holds him off, touching his cheek, feeling the shape of his jaw, stroking his thumb across his lower lip. Freddy presses his body closer, shaking a little, and White rubs him down his back with slow hands, murmuring, “Easy,” and maybe it’s obvious Freddy hasn’t let himself be with a man since he was a teenager.

Almost absurdly, Dylan’s still unspooling lazily in the background – _his clothes are dirty but his hands are clean, and you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen…_

***

Freddy thinks about that night during the days that follow. Recollections present themselves to him like searing phantoms from a fever dream.

On the bed. Sinking down into the mattress, stomach muscles catching painfully, holding himself up on his elbows, then White’s hands were on his chest and the mattress was shifting, White’s body settling against his.

It was nothing like Freddy remembered, overwhelmingly good, White’s mouth on his neck, his flat hot palm stroking over his ribs, then brushing his nipple. Freddy jumped at the strangeness of it. White touched him there again and again. Freddy shifted restlessly. He wasn’t prepared when White’s mouth closed suddenly over his nipple, sucking wet kisses, worrying the nub with his tongue and then sucking again, closing his teeth on him abruptly, and Freddy swore, his voice pitched high, startled and shaky.

White sucked his nipple, his hand stroking over Freddy’s belly, the soft hair trailing down to his belt buckle. The muscles in Feddy’s belly jumped at the slow touches, tender as fuck from the beat down. Freddy panted, White’s mouth too much on his nipple, the ache of it making him twist and strain.

When White let up, Freddy’s nipple was tingling and raw, slick with spit. White stroked the calloused pads of his fingers gently back and forth over the tormented flesh. Freddy met White’s gaze and licked his lips. He curled his hand round the back of White’s neck and tried to draw him down, wanting to taste his mouth.

“Look so fuckin good,” White murmured. “You got any idea?” Then his tongue was hot and wet between Freddy’s lips, taking his time. He moved his hand gently over Freddy’s belly again, then he was working his belt open. Freddy tensed up, his kisses becoming rough and clumsy, his breath coming sharper. His hand went to White’s elbow, gripping him there, feeling the hard shift of muscle. He was very aware all at once of the masculine strength of this body on top of him. He felt a flicker of unease. 

_Large men leaning over him, cigarette smoke burning his nose, fists connecting savagely with his gut –_

“Alright, sweetheart,” White rumbled softly, watching his face and rubbing his thumb in slow circles through the hair under his belly button. Freddy loosened his grip on White’s arm, lay still as White popped the button on his jeans, pulled his fly down. His mouth fell open as White took hold of him firmly through his briefs, no messing. He tipped his head back into the mattress, arching his neck.

“Yeah,” White murmured. He squeezed Freddy’s dick, his hand was warm and strong, no hesitation in his touch, it felt so good, Freddy was so hard. Freddy held White’s wrist for a moment, just held him there, then moved his hand restlessly up White’s arm, back to his elbow. He turned his head aside, more than a little mortified to realise he was trembling.

“Not going to hurt you, baby.” The low timbre of White’s voice sent a hot bolt through Freddy. White slid his hand down to cup Freddy’s balls through the thin cotton, stroking back up again, squeezing him just right. A choked moan caught in Freddy’s throat.

“That's it,” White said. “That's it.” His mouth closed hot over Freddy's. He went slow with it, fucking his tongue into Freddy's mouth, fingers on Freddy's cock moving lazily in time with his tongue, and right then it felt like about the best thing Freddy had felt on his cock in his life.

“You've been drivin me crazy, you know that?” White mumbled against his lips. He turned his head into Freddy's neck, kissing and nosing under his jaw. “How do you want it?”

Freddy's breathing seemed loud in his ears, loud in the quiet room. He swallowed, fighting to pull himself together, his cock twitching as White passed his hand over his balls again, cupping and rubbing him gently.

“Tell me, baby.”

Freddy pushed at his shoulder. White went obligingly onto his back. Freddy slung his leg over, straddling him. White’s hands came to rest firm on his hips. Freddy rubbed his hands down White’s chest, hot under the worn t-shirt he had on, then lower, sliding his hand between them, squeezed the man through the crotch of his jeans, fired by the reality of it, the solid line of White’s hard on.

“You want that?” White murmured, his face easing as Freddy kept touching him, his lips parting with a sigh.

Freddy let go of him, started rocking his ass slow against him, watching his face, the slow blink of his eyelids. White’s hands slid down the back of his jeans where they hung loose, feeling the swell of his ass through his briefs as he rolled his hips.

“You want that dick, baby?” White breathed.

Freddy's breath stuttered. He braced his hands against White's chest, kept up the lazy grind of his hips, sucking his lips into his mouth to keep quiet, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Fuck,” White said. “You want to ride that dick? Look so good. Want to sit on my big dick?”

“Oh fuck,” Freddy gasped, his anus clenching, his cock crushed aching in his jeans, the beat of his blood in it, trapped so tight, pulsing, damp and close. He clasped himself roughly through the denim, going still, feeling sweat on his neck, the itch of it in the hot crease of his armpits.

White leant up, holding Freddy's thigh with one hand, his other hand at his waist.

“Let me fuck you,” he murmured. Freddy could feel his hard-on against his ass and it made him shudder. “Sweet baby. I'll give it to you so good.”

***

Freddy pushed his jeans and his underwear off, hearing the clip of White’s belt hitting the floor as he did the same. He turned back to find the man regarding him with undisguised appreciation. He lifted his chin, trying not to betray his sudden shyness, his skin burning under the intensity of White’s gaze. He turned his body slowly, keenly aware of his own exhibition. White shifted closer once more and placed a warm hand on his thigh, feeling every contour of him, stroking the soft, wiry hairs on his leg. Freddy drew his knees up a little way and eased his legs open. The look White gave him was scorching.

“Fucking beautiful boy.”

White lay between Freddy's open legs. Freddy stretched his arms above his head, White stroked his hand down the soft flesh of his underarm, cupped his hand to Freddy's ribs while he kissed him.

***

White stroked Freddy’s back all the while with his free hand, murmuring low sounds.

Two fingers had Freddy biting the fleshy base of his thumb, breathing laboured, sweating, his hair flat on his forehead.

The final time White pushed in, he hooked his fingers at a determined angle. The sensation that ripped through Freddy had him crying out hoarsely. He was taken totally unawares, but instinctively he drove himself back against White’s touch. White pulled out of him. Freddy’s pressed his forehead into his arm, squeezed his eyes shut, waiting, and White took him firmly by the hips. Freddy felt the head of his cock lining up, it felt huge. He started then, the slow drive into him.

Freddy’s flanks were trembling within seconds. His skin had a sheen of sweat on it like a race horse's.

“Alright,” White gritted out, pushing, pushing. He grunted, splaying his fingers on Freddy's hips, gripping tight again. Freddy's breath came harsh as he took him, bit by bit, deeper. “Ah, fuck,” White moaned. He hissed as he finally bottomed out. He knelt panting then, buried in Freddy, holding still, giving him time.

“Christ –” Freddy said. Then: “Okay…okay…”

“Fucking _tight_ –” White groaned as he started, his voice rich with pleasure, almost too low for Freddy to hear, thrusts solid and measured, the wet sound of it and the sensation overwhelming, and Freddy couldn't have kept quiet for anything, whining shaky in his throat, a stunned, questioning note to it, primal and pleading.

“Oh, baby” White choked out “Take that prick so good. So fuckin good, baby. Oh… _fuck_ …”

White was relentless, pounding him until he was keening, high and reedy like a man in pain, but he was dribbling pre-come on the sheets beneath him.

White reached around at once, clasped Freddy in his hand, pumped once, twice. Freddy writhed. The third and fourth finished him. He went rigid, his body straining forward – then he was coming hard, spasms wracking his body.

Freddy’s ears were filled with a roaring like crashing waters. It was alarmingly intense, as if he was being shaken apart. It eased off like a cramp or a violent strain relaxing, full-bodied, and then he almost folded. White still had one hand on his hip though – the other milking the last out of him, his touch becoming almost unbearable.

White hit his own climax soon after. He thrust into Freddy unsteadily, and his rhythm quickly falling apart. A final deep push and a strained groan marked his release.

Then Freddy collapsed, boneless, onto the mattress. White dropped flat on his back alongside him. Freddy’s eyes were hot and tired. His lids were down and he was half-asleep within seconds.

“God damn…” White murmured. He sounded far away.

Freddy was dimly aware of fingers brushing his sweat-slicked hair off his forehead. His skin felt pleasurably cooler for it.

“Larry?” he said thickly, his eyes still closed.

“Yeah, what is it, kid?” White said. His voice was soft and gravely.

“My name’s Freddy.”

Everything was heavy and silent. Freddy sighed deeply, his features smoothing out. It was only as he sunk into sleep that a frown gradually darkened his expression.

***

(The End) 


End file.
